


The Tides Go In, The Tides Go Out

by Arbryna



Series: Saar-Meraad (Dangerous Tides) [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Legend of the Seeker
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, One-Shot, Porn With Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-14
Updated: 2012-05-14
Packaged: 2017-11-05 08:25:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arbryna/pseuds/Arbryna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isabela is in Llomerryn on a routine stop to resupply when she comes across an intriguing blonde in a tavern. Takes place prior to Dragon Age: Origins, and entirely in the Dragon Age universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tides Go In, The Tides Go Out

She hates coming here.

It's funny, really. Llomerryn is a place that embodies everything Isabela values most: drink, debauchery, loose morals. Anything she might desire is easily within reach here—a freedom which is ironic in a city whose every corner holds echoes of a time in her life when she was anything but free. 

So she only docks here when she has to, and avoids the crowded bazaar full of con artists, pickpockets and fortune tellers. That's one chapter of her life she never wants to revisit. Instead, she frequents the even seedier parts of town, where the whores advertise with the baring of skin rather than flashy Orlesian silks. There's more steel than gold here, and a stranger will just as soon slit your throat as say hello.

Of course, they have to catch you first—and Isabela has made a career of not getting caught.

It's here, tucked among the crumbling clay walls of houses packed too close together, that the Rusty Spike Tavern sits in all its ramshackle glory. Once upon a time, the crudely carved sign hanging above the door depicted a dagger whose blade was curved in a delightfully lewd manner. Over the years, the paint has flaked away, and the salt breeze has eaten away at the wood; now the image is barely recognizable, and all the more vulgar for it. The sight never fails to bring a grin to Isabela's lips.

The booze here is decent, and the information usually reliable. The whores aren't bad, either, but Isabela is low on coin and in more need of a stiff drink than a good fuck. 

Not that she ever rules out a good fuck. Her eyes are everywhere at once as she swaggers into the room, sizing up the other patrons for their potential uses. They're mostly locals here, and not the friendly type; thieves and smugglers and mercenaries, all with ties to the Felicisima Armada—you can't make a living in Llomerryn without giving the ever-present organization of raiders their cut. She recognizes some of them, has worked with a few in the past. Sadly, the only ones she'd consider for a tumble, she's already tried; and they weren't much more use than her own hand. 

The coppers she slaps down onto the bar are quickly snatched up by the barkeep, who gives her generous cleavage a lingering look, then raises his eyes to her own. He nods and smiles, a flash of bright teeth against dark lips, before turning to reach for the good whiskey and a clay tumbler. 

Isabela grins; it's good to be recognized. She's been coming here for years, whenever she's forced to dock in Llomerryn, and most of the time he's just about the only thing she's happy to see. 

Navid is an older man, wiry but strong. His ebony skin is scarred and pitted from decades of breaking up brawls, and the lantern light flickers golden off of the smooth skin of his head. Isabela has wondered more than once if the rest of him is as smooth, but while the man is predictably appreciative of her assets, he's also perhaps the only man in the whole of the city who believes in fidelity. She's never met his wife, but the woman must be quite a catch to inspire the loyalty of such a fine specimen of a man. 

She quickly downs the drink he slides across the bar; it burns its way down her throat, and the warmth is a pleasant change from the chill of the wind outside. Navid is quick to refill the empty tumbler, and she smiles at him in thanks as she raises it once again to her lips. 

As he moves on to another customer, Isabela turns around, leaning casually against the bar. She sips her drink slowly this time, rolling the sharp, bitter liquid over her tongue as she looks around the tavern. 

A flash of movement draws her attention to a person she didn't notice before. The woman is tucked into a shadowy corner, sitting rigidly with her hands closed around a clay mug. Straight hair the color of watered-down ale frames the shadowed curves of her face, barely brushing her shoulders. She's wearing a tunic that at one point was probably white, though it's clear she's been traveling for awhile from the dirt stains scattered along the front. It fits her loosely, as though it wasn't quite made with her in mind, though it doesn't manage to conceal the swell of her breasts beneath it. A bow and quiver sit on the bench next to her, propped against the wall.

Isabela's not the only one to have noticed. The movement that got her attention was a scraggly longshoreman sliding in beside the blonde, a leering smile revealing several gaps where teeth used to be. Isabela is fairly certain she recognizes the man—Gribbs is his name. In fact, she's the one who knocked out some of those teeth when she caught him helping himself to her cargo a few years back. More balls than sense, that one; something which doesn't appear to have changed. 

The purse of full lips is the only indication that the blonde has even noticed his presence. She murmurs something, too softly for Isabela to hear, then raises her cup to her lips, staring stoically ahead into the tavern. He chuckles, leans closer; the shift of his arm behind the table enough indication of what kind of suggestions he's whispering into her ear. The blonde looks anything but interested.

Isabela slides a bit further down the bar, curious to see how this will play out. The blonde's expression doesn't change, but one of her hands darts below the table; there's a loud crunch, and Gribbs howls in shock and pain. 

All eyes in the tavern shoot toward the pair at the man's outburst, but most flick away just as quickly. It's not an uncommon display, and as long as it doesn't interrupt their own drinking and whoring, they don't much care how it ends. Isabela, on the other hand, couldn't be more riveted. Usually she's the one making this kind of spectacle; it's refreshing to be on the outside looking in for once. 

"Bitch broke my hand!" 

The blonde's lip curls into a sneer—the most expression she's shown thus far. "Leave now, or I'll break something else." Her voice is low and dangerous, and Isabela has to suppress a shiver at the heat that blooms low in her belly. That tone promises all the best kinds of trouble. 

With a whimper, Gribbs reclaims his hand. His eyes dart around as he stumbles drunkenly to his feet, cursing quietly to himself as he storms out the door, slamming it angrily behind him with one last muttered "Bitch". 

Looking for all the world like nothing happened, the blonde lifts her drink to her lips, taking a slow sip before lowering the cup back to the table. Isabela glances back across the bar to Navid, producing a few more coppers from one of several hiding places on her person. He grins, shaking his head knowingly as he collects the coin and pours another tumbler of whiskey. He's seen that look in Isabela's eyes before. 

Isabela shrugs, shooting him a parting smirk as she snatches up the other drink and pushes away from the bar. She saunters over to the corner table, dropping the tumbler onto the weathered wood as she sinks into the chair opposite the blonde. 

The woman's eyes, a deep forest green in the dim light, flick down to consider the drink for a moment before rising to meet Isabela's gaze. Deliberately, the blonde takes another pull from the cup in her hand, ignoring the one on the table.

"I haven't drugged it," Isabela says casually. Her light tone takes a turn for the dark and seductive as she arches an eyebrow at the woman. "You'd want to be conscious for anything I'd do to you." 

That earns her a twitch of those plump red lips, as though the blonde is almost tempted to smile. "You are brave to suggest such a thing, considering what happened to the last man who tried." Her words are carefully chosen, and even more carefully spoken; not something Isabela encounters often in her line of work. They are also devoid of any sort of recognizable accent, which only intrigues Isabela all the more.

"Ah, but you see, I'm not a man," Isabela points out, leaning forward over the low table. Her arms frame her breasts, straining as always against the meager confines of her low-cut leather armor, and she smirks in satisfaction as those green eyes drift to her ample cleavage before quickly darting back up. "And I must admit, I've got a weakness for women who can take care of themselves."

"That's good to know, should I ever find myself in battle against you."

It takes a moment for Isabela to realize the woman has made a joke; her tone and expression are both even, and the slight crinkle at the corners of her eyes is the only indication of any sort of amusement. When she does catch on, Isabela chuckles. "I can think of much more fun ways for you to be against me," she purrs, leaning back in her seat and raising her drink to her lips. She gestures offhandedly to the tumbler still sitting in the center of the table. "But if you're not interested, you're still welcome to the drink. You earned it with that entertaining little show." 

The woman seems to consider it, her eyes taking on a distant look as though there's a lot more at stake than a tumble. They clear after a few seconds; a slender blonde eyebrow arches, ever so slightly, and the woman's lips twitch once again. "Did I say I wasn't interested?"

Isabela grins; she thought so. Slowly, deliberately, she rakes her eyes appreciatively over the other woman. Attractive, confident, and an archer besides; Isabela has fond memories of what such strong arms and nimble fingers can do. Yes, this is definitely promising. She sets her drink back down, running her fingertips lazily around the rim. "I'm Isabela, by the way," she says, gesturing grandly with her other hand and tilting her head forward. It's the closest she can come to a dramatic bow in her current position; her title demands some small bit of ceremony. "Captain Isabela."

The blonde cocks her head to the side, a strange mix of curiosity and surprise evident in the narrowing of her eyes and the quirking of her mouth. "You have a ship?"

The smile that spreads wide on Isabela's lips is warm and genuine. "The _Siren's Call_. My pride and joy," she says, recalling the billowing sails and gently rolling decks she knows so well. If there's one thing she'll ever admit to loving, it's the ship she inherited from her late husband. Only thing the blighter was ever good for, but _what_ a thing. "She's been with me near eight years now, and always faithful."

A small smirk tugs at the blonde's lips as she swallows the last of her drink, dropping the empty tumbler onto the table. Her eyes glimmer with interest, steadily locked on Isabela's own. "I hope she's not the jealous type." 

Isabela laughs, low and appreciative. "Ooh, I knew I liked you." She's got a feeling this woman is going to be all _kinds_ of fun once she manages to relax a little. "Do you have a name?"

The woman's lips part automatically to respond, but she stops herself, her brow furrowing slightly as she thinks. "You may call me Cara," she says finally, when the far-off look in her eyes clears.

"Cara," Isabela repeats, rolling the name over her tongue. She wonders what Cara's first answer was going to be. Everyone's entitled to their secrets, she supposes. Isabela is not her birth name any more than Cara is this woman's, and she knows the value of choosing one's identity. "Well, Cara, my ship is docked nearby. Perhaps you'd like to...get acquainted with her?"

***

Cara moves with a fluid grace as she steps onto the deck of the _Siren's Call_ , taking to the slight rocking of the deck under her feet as though she was born for sailing. The red leather trousers the woman is wearing cling to her toned thighs, and the tunic she's wearing comes down just far enough to hint at what promises to be a spectacular ass. Isabela would almost be content just to lean back against the rail and watch the subtle sway of those hips, but there are more pressing matters that need to be attended to—preferably belowdecks.

Most of her crew is off in the city, availing themselves of the many and varied pleasures on offer at the bazaar. The sun is just sinking below the horizon, and they won't be setting sail again until tomorrow morning. Still, the ship is anything but empty, and Isabela suspects it will be enough of a challenge to get Cara to loosen up without an audience. 

Those green eyes burn into Isabela as she leads the way to her private cabin. Cara follows close behind, never touching but always near enough for her presence to be felt. It's a short walk to the door under the quarterdeck, and Isabela spins around to find Cara's gaze fixed firmly on her lower regions. She smirks, watching those eyes travel up her body. When they reach her chest, Isabela reaches into the space between her breasts with a thumb and forefinger, taking her time in retrieving the small key she has stored there. 

Isabela raises her other hand to trace the collar of Cara's shirt, fingertips sliding across smooth golden skin. Cara's eyes finally meet hers, and the intensity there sends tingles down Isabela's spine. "Wait here," she says, pressing her palm flat against Cara's chest and pushing her back just enough to have space to work. 

Unlocking the door is the easy part, and a mere formality in any case; the real challenge, at least to anyone who isn't Isabela, is to push it open just far enough to reach in and disarm the tripwire inside. She slips it free of its catch with a practiced ease, grinning back over her shoulder as she lets the door fall open the rest of the way. 

Cara's gaze follows her into the room. "You don't trust your crew?" 

"Trust is a funny thing," Isabela muses as she makes her way across the cabin. Fading sunlight spills through the small, high window at the back, providing a meager amount of illumination, but she could walk this path blindfolded. She disarms a few more traps along the way—just the ones her guest might inadvertently set off—and finally stops in front of a table against the far wall, reaching for the box of matches she knows is there. "I trust my men to do as they're told, so long as there's something in it for them. Anything beyond that would be foolish."

A match flares to life, followed by the oil lamp on the table. Soft amber light floods the room, flickering against the familiar worn wood of the walls. Isabela turns slowly around, leans against the edge of the table; seductive in a way that's only a little deliberate. Cara has moved forward just far enough to lean against the door frame, stopping short of completely entering the room. 

"It's safe to come in now," Isabela says, an inviting smile curling her lips. She reaches up to her shoulders, her hands closing around the sculpted gold hilts of her daggers and sliding them free. They clatter softly against the wood as she drops them onto the table behind her.

Cara's gaze follows the line of her body, desire smoldering in green eyes as she steps into the cabin. The door closes behind her with a soft click, and Cara stalks forward until there are only a few paces between them. That's when Isabela notices the slight hesitation in Cara's eyes, the faint tremor of her hands where they rest at her sides. 

"Aw, sweet thing, are you nervous?" Isabela croons, closing the distance between them. Her hands rise to slide along Cara's shoulders, the fingers of one curling under the strap that holds the quiver to her back. 

"Don't be absurd," Cara scoffs, bringing her hands to rest decisively at Isabela's waist.

Isabela smirks, raising an eyebrow in response; she can still see the rapid rise and fall of Cara's chest, can feel the woman's shallow breaths puffing against her own lips as she hovers teasingly out of reach. 

The unspoken challenge in Isabela's eyes seems to spur Cara into action; her fingers dig into the leather-clad flesh of Isabela's hips, dragging her forward to close the remaining distance. Her mouth descends on Isabela's with a single-minded intensity, lips pressing hard and demanding.

Maker, the woman can kiss. Isabela moans in appreciation as Cara's hands drift past her hips to clutch at her ass. She kisses back with ardent enthusiasm, parting her lips to welcome Cara's probing tongue as her own hands slide up to tangle in blonde hair. If Isabela were a different kind of woman, she might be content to draw this out, to savor the slow burn of arousal; but she's not a different kind of woman, and she's never been one for delayed gratification.

Cara grunts softly in protest as Isabela pulls back, tugging insistently at the bowstring slung over Cara's chest. A strong hand clamps hard around Isabela's wrist before she gets very far.

"I will do that." The terse, sharp tone of her voice is at odds with the gentle, almost reverent way Cara slips the bow over her head and cradles it in her hands. Passion is momentarily forgotten as she crosses to a low bench built into the wall of the ship, laying the weapon gingerly on the cushioned surface.

Isabela wants to question the abrupt change in mood; she quite liked the way things were progressing before, and honestly, it's just a _bow_. But Cara moves quickly to lift the quiver from her shoulders and place it next to her weapon, and when she turns back around, the want in her eyes burns as bright as ever. 

Well, she can always find out what that was about later. For now, Isabela is more than happy to forget all about weaponry—at least, weaponry she doesn't currently have hidden on her person. As Cara approaches again, Isabela produces several more daggers of varying sizes, tossing them on the table with the others. 

Cara arches an eyebrow, impressed by the growing pile of blades; then she's back in Isabela's space again, palms burning into Isabela's back through the leather. Isabela tilts her head back, moaning as those full lips attach themselves to her neck. 

It's not often Isabela allows someone else to take the lead like this; she likes to be on top, and she makes no secret of it. But the way Cara clutches firmly at her sides as she sucks and nips at her throat manages to be dominating without also being possessive. Cara wants to be in control, but she doesn't want to control Isabela—a fine distinction that makes all the difference. 

Of course, that doesn't mean she's content being completely passive. Isabela's hands busy themselves with Cara's belt while Cara's hands slide up her body to tug at the buckles of Isabela's leather armor. The belt falls to the ground in short order, but Cara's fingers are getting clumsier as her frustration grows. 

Isabela gasps as Cara's teeth bite down harder than they have been, sending a sharp jolt of pain—or pleasure, she's not sure which and she likes it that way—shooting straight between her legs. She can feel moisture pooling slick in her smalls, her sex throbbing with need; she shoves Cara's hands out of the way and makes quick work of the buckles herself. 

The leather falls to her waist to reveal generous breasts, topped with dark nipples already stiff with arousal. Coins clatter to the floor—Isabela forgot about those—but Cara's eyes are fixed on the newly exposed skin; her throat bobs as she swallows thickly.

"Like what you see?" Isabela doesn't even try to conceal the smug curve of her lips. 

Cara answers with the touch of her hands, kneading the soft flesh as she lowers her mouth to the valley between Isabela's breasts, laving the skin there with the same attention she gave Isabela's throat. When that hot mouth closes around one straining nipple, Isabela groans, arching into the touch.

"As nice as that is—" Isabela lets out a startled gasp as Cara bites down and sucks hard. "—I think there's still far too many clothes involved here." 

Warm hands slide down to the back of her thighs and tug, and Isabela finds herself unceremoniously lifted and dropped onto her bed. Cara bends over her, hooking her fingers under the armor at her waist and pulling it the rest of the way off. 

The way Cara looks at her makes Isabela shiver, all heat and determination as she works the buckles of Isabela's thigh-high boots. She has better luck with these than with the armor, and soon Isabela is lying back on the bed, naked but for her smalls. Calloused fingertips brush along the bronzed skin of Isabela's calves, under her knees, up the sides of her thighs, and then they're pulling down the last scrap of fabric. 

Isabela lets her legs fall open, hissing in pleasure as the cool air in the cabin hits the moist flesh of her sex. Propping herself up on her elbows, she watches with a hungry sort of anticipation as Cara crawls onto the bed with her. The green of Cara's eyes is nearly gone, thin rings around blown pupils, and a pink tongue slides out to moisten those impossibly full lips; if sex had a particular look, this would come damn close to it. 

Without the constraints of her belt, Cara's shirt hangs loosely, the rough-spun material raising goosebumps as it teases against Isabela's bare stomach. The sensation is delicious, but the woman's pace is maddeningly slow, and Isabela doesn't like to be kept waiting. She groans and curls a fist around the front of the shirt, dragging Cara up the rest of the way and pulling her down into a hard, greedy kiss. The movement jerks a muscled thigh against her sex, pulling a wanton moan from her throat.

"Mm, yes," Isabela murmurs into Cara's mouth, grinding against the thick seams of the patchwork leather. It's _so good_ , but it's not enough, and she reaches down to tug at the hem of Cara's shirt, dragging it up and over her head and flinging it aside.

Cara's lips find hers again, firm and demanding, hands falling to either side of Isabela's head. Isabela grunts in protest as her breasts press against not bare flesh, but soft, tightly-wrapped linen. Smoothing her hands up the warm skin of Cara's sides, Isabela traces the edge of the bindings. Her tongue doesn't miss a beat, sliding insistently against Cara's own as her fingers deftly find the edge of the fabric and tug it loose. 

Shifting her weight onto one hand, Cara reaches up to free herself of the linen. Tossing it away, she leans back in to continue kissing Isabela, but the pirate stops her with one hand at either shoulder.

"Well that's a downright shame," Isabela says huskily, drinking in the sight. Cara's breasts are full, not as large as Isabela's—she has yet to meet a woman with a bosom to rival her own—but well-formed, with tight pink nipples that scrape deliciously against Isabela's chest. "Hiding such magnificent breasts from the world."

Breathing ragged and quick, Cara struggles to hold herself up, strong arms trembling as Isabela's hands move up to examine her newly-uncovered prize. Green eyes flash dark as Isabela rolls her nipples between thumbs and forefingers, kneads the soft flesh with calloused palms.

Cara's arms threaten to buckle beneath her; she catches herself in time, but the movement thrusts her knee forward, hard. Isabela gasps, arching her hips into it, and her exploration is forgotten in the almost electric burst of sensation. 

Then the contact is gone; Cara is gone, drawing back and shifting her weight so that she can slip a hand between Isabela's legs. Rough fingertips tease at the crease where thigh meets sex, brush over dark curls already damp with need. Cara's face remains frustratingly stoic, but there's a glint of mischief in her eyes as she drags a finger slowly up between slick folds, pulling away just as her touch glances over an engorged clit. 

Well, this won't do at all. Isabela groans her impatience, hand shooting up to clamp around Cara's wrist, pushing palm and fingers firmly against her dripping sex. "There's no need to tease," Isabela pants, pinning Cara with a heated gaze. "I'm more than ready."

Cara quirks an eyebrow at that, her lips curving as though she's both surprised and amused by Isabela's forwardness. Isabela smirks back unapologetically, grinding hard against Cara's hand. You can't expect to get what you want unless you ask for it, after all. Her grip loosens and falls away from Cara's wrist as a slender finger slides in, then out again, only to be joined by a second as it pushes forward again. 

"Maker, yes," Isabela sighs approvingly, dropping her head back against the bed as her hips rise to meet Cara's deliberate thrusts. Cara treats this with the same determined concentration as she has everything else; she twists her fingers inside Isabela, tests different angles and strokes to see what prompts the best reaction.

Isabela is happy to help her out, with eager moans and gasps of encouragement. When Cara adds a third finger and drives into her hard, palm slamming against her clit, Isabela doesn't bother trying to hold back the wanton cry that tears from her throat. Cara stiffens at the loudness of it, her eyes darting up nervously in the direction of the door. 

If she wasn't well on her way to a bone-melting orgasm, Isabela might laugh; as it is, she just rolls her hips against Cara's hand, fingers clenched into fists around the blankets. "It's sex, sweet thing," she groans. "It's meant to be enjoyed. And it's nothing my crew haven't heard before." 

Actually, at least half of them have been the cause of such noises, but that's not important now. What matters is Cara thrusting again in earnest, sweat beading on her brow as she pushes in and out. Isabela can do little more than hold on as waves of pleasure crash through her, carrying her closer and closer to release. 

Her climax hits like a bolt of lightning, striking at her sex and burning its way through her body. What escapes Isabela's lips can barely be considered actual words; it's more an unintelligible string of curses and moans, louder than anything that came before. She collapses back against the bed, chest heaving as she clenches around Cara's fingers. 

Before she can catch her breath, Isabela realizes that Cara hasn't stopped. Prying her eyes open, she looks down at the blonde, a rush of renewed arousal flooding her at the sight that greets her; the look of intense determination in Cara's eyes, the eager grin that curls the corners of her lips, the soft golden glow of the lamplight playing over the defined muscles of Cara's arm as it pumps steadily into her. 

The spasms from her first release are still fading, and Isabela can already feel herself quickly approaching another. Her heels dig into the mattress beneath her as she arches to meet Cara's thrusts. One of her hands releases its fistful of blanket to close over her own breast, tugging and teasing at herself as Cara coaxes her to a second climax, then a third, until she can't keep count anymore because she can't tell where one ends and another begins. 

Finally Isabela has to reach down to stop Cara's arm. "A girl can only take so much," she says breathlessly, her lips stretching in a lazy smile as she drops her head back onto the bed.

Still holding herself up with one hand, Cara obligingly slides her fingers free. She's panting as though she's the one who just came about a dozen times, her parted lips curving up at the corners with a smug sort of satisfaction that Isabela can't wait to wipe off her face. 

She gets the opportunity sooner than expected; Cara looks down at her glistening fingers, then shifts like she's about to move off of the bed. Isabela stops her, closing a hand around her wrist.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Cara pauses, brow furrowing. "To clean this off," she says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Isabela might be offended, but Cara doesn't seem disgusted; it just doesn't occur to her to do anything else. It's equal parts amusing and intriguing; Cara doesn't strike her as a virgin, but there's definitely some kind of story here. 

That Isabela will ask her about later. There are far more important issues at the moment. Smirking, she tugs Cara's hand toward her. "That would be a waste." She draws Cara's fingers into her mouth, savoring the familiar flavor of her own release. Green eyes widen in surprise, and Cara moans as Isabela drags the tip of her tongue along the length of the digits one by one. 

It never takes very long for Isabela to catch her breath; a life of near-constant dueling and sex and adventure keeps her very fit. By the time she's sucked every trace of herself from Cara's fingers, she's more than ready to return the favor. She releases the captive digits, nipping lightly at the very tips as they slide past her lips. Then she's up on one elbow, trailing her free hand along the waistband of Cara's pants. 

"Let's see what kind of treasure you've got hiding under there," Isabela purrs, working her hand under the tight red leather. She cups Cara's sex through her smalls; the fabric is damp against her palm. Cara's hips jerk into Isabela's hand, and her arm buckles, forcing her to slam her other hand down into the bed at Isabela's side. 

It's the opportunity Isabela was looking for, and she takes advantage of Cara's momentary lack of balance to flip them both over. Cara barely has time to look surprised before Isabela is tearing at the laces of her pants, fingers working with a skill born of years of practice. It's a matter of moments before she's tugging the leather over Cara's hips, dragging her smallclothes along with it. They can only be pulled down so far, stopped by Cara's knee-high boots, but it's all Isabela needs. 

She thought Cara was an arousing sight leaning above her, but now, lying beneath her, hooded green eyes locked on Isabela's own, the blonde is magnificent. Then again, Isabela may be biased; everyone looks better underneath her. 

"Mmm...so wet." Isabela licks her lips as she slides a fingertip lightly along the seam of Cara's sex.

Cara shudders, jerks her hips, but doesn't make a sound. Isabela smirks; she'll have to try harder. She works her way down Cara's body, stopping to pull each nipple into her mouth in turn. Getting to the point is one thing, but it would be a crime to neglect such gorgeous breasts. 

Isabela stops when her own breasts are brushing the tops of Cara's thighs. "I wonder what you taste like." Cara's eyes widen at the implication, and Isabela grins, keeping her gaze locked on Cara's face as she lowers her mouth to the woman's sex. 

A strangled groan slips from Cara's throat as Isabela's tongue follows the same path her finger did moments earlier, but Cara quickly stifles the sound. Isabela chuckles.

"You've got to let me know what you like, sweet thing." Hot breath brushes across swollen flesh with each word, and Cara's hips tremble under Isabela's palms. Cara's answer is to bury her fingers in Isabela's dark hair and tug insistently as a needy growl escapes her throat. It'll do, for now; Isabela dips her head down once more, sliding her tongue through the thick, tangy wetness. Then she's sucking and licking in earnest, arousal slicking her face, the smell of sweat and sex overwhelming her senses. 

Cara tenses as Isabela slides a finger into her; an emphatic swipe of Isabela's tongue over her clit has the blonde relaxing once more, arching wantonly as Isabela gradually adds another. Isabela's tongue never stops moving, flicking across the sensitive flesh at a rapid pace as her fingers thrust in and out.

Isabela can feel the moment that Cara's restraint snaps; a throaty moan sounds in her throat, and her fingers tighten in Isabela's hair, tugging at her scalp in a way that's just the right amount of painful. Isabela grins into Cara's sex, giving her clit a parting nibble before she pulls away. Her thumb takes over for her mouth as she curls her fingers inside Cara, eyes locked on the blonde's. She wants to watch that carefully stoic facade shatter. 

She's not disappointed. Cara's eyes slam shut as she comes with a long, low groan, back arching against the bed. Her hands slip free of Isabela's hair, clutching at the blankets at her sides. 

Without removing her fingers, Isabela shifts up on the bed, claiming Cara's lips in a languid open-mouthed kiss. Cara looses a sharp, startled moan at the taste of her own sex, but it's not long before she's returning the kiss in earnest. Isabela's fingers never stop moving, coaxing every last shudder from Cara's body. 

" _Parshaara_ ," Cara pants, pushing weakly at Isabela's shoulder. The dazed look in her eyes clears a bit, alarm flashing through them. "Enough," she corrects quickly, but too late to take back what she's already said.

Isabela pulls away, blinks. Well, she didn't see _that_ coming, but it certainly explains a lot. She pulls herself up to lounge on the bed next to Cara, looking down at her flushed, sweat-slick skin as though seeing the blonde for the first time. "You're Qunari." 

Having grown up in Llomerryn, Isabela is no stranger to the Qunari, or the fact that their ranks are composed of far more than just the hulking, gray-skinned kossith. The possibility that Cara was one should have occurred to her from the start. She decides to blame it on Cara being female; even in Rivain, female Qunari are seldom seen outside of Kont-Aar. 

For a moment, Cara appears to consider denying it. The moment is fleeting, though, and she turns her gaze away. Her sigh is a combination of resignation and shame. "No longer."

Tal-Vashoth, then. Isabela's known a few of them from time to time, though they're usually more interested in trying to kill her than a quick tumble. A sardonic smile touches Isabela's lips. "From what I know of the Qunari, they aren't overly fond of people leaving their ranks." 

Cara's jaw clenches, and she curls her arms over her stomach as if in defense. "If they were to learn of my location, I would no doubt be hunted." She tries to keep her tone neutral, but Isabela can hear the anxious waver in her voice. 

It's almost enough to make Isabela laugh; if Cara thinks she's going to turn her in to the Qunari, she's got a lot to learn about Isabela. 

"Well, I always say the best way to avoid a fight is to simply not be there," Isabela says, stretching luxuriantly as she lies back on the bed. 

"That is why I came to Llomerryn," Cara says, and Isabela can hear relief creeping into her voice. "It seemed as good a place as any to get lost."

"Fair point," Isabela concedes. Anonymity is one of the many things the island city is known for. A thought strikes her, then, and Isabela props herself up on an elbow to look down at Cara. "But I can do you one better. Join my crew." 

It's not a new idea, by any means; she's recruited a good number of her crew this way. If you're going to have someone around day in and day out, they might as well be good for something other than swabbing decks. 

Cara frowns, but she seems to consider it. "I am...not a sailor."

"I can teach you. It'll be fun." Isabela pauses, a devilish smirk tugging at her lips. "The sailing, too."

"Well, it would be logical." Cara's words are casual, but there's an excitement in her face, her voice, that can't be concealed. 

Isabela eyes Cara warily as a thought occurs to her. "Just so long as we're clear that this," she gestures between their two bodies, "isn't about anything but sex."

Cara laughs, dry and almost bitter, and a flash of genuine emotion flickers across her features before she forces it away. "I have had my fill of love. It is a weakness I do not wish to revisit."

"Then you and I will get along wonderfully," Isabela says with a grin. Pushing smoothly off of the bed, she settles herself over Cara's hips, grinding down emphatically. Cara's eyes darken, any trace of melancholy disappearing as she arches against Isabela. "And I don't see any reason we can't start right away."

  


_end._  


**Author's Note:**

> The pants and boots that Cara are wearing are inspired by [this concept art](http://images4.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20100806112936/dragonage/images/thumb/e/e3/Qunari_DA2.png/472px-Qunari_DA2.png) for Dragon Age II, although Cara's are blood red (of course :P) rather than black. The shirt is obviously from...somewhere else *cue mysterious music*. 
> 
> Also, some helpful definitions for those who haven't played Dragon Age (links lead to the Dragon Age Wiki, for those interested in reading more):
> 
> [Kossith](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Kossith): A large, grey-skinned race of humanoid creatures with horns growing out of their heads (as in the above concept art). Most are devout followers of the Qun. 
> 
> Parshaara: Enough.
> 
> [Qunari](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Qunari): Followers of the Qun, a rigid philosophical (and almost religious) code of honor that is the basis of their culture.
> 
> Tal-Vashoth: Literally, "True Grey Ones". Former Qunari who have abandoned the teachings of the Qun. Those who claim this name are violent outlaws, embracing the chaos that the Qun denies them. People who aren't Qunari might (inaccurately) apply the name to anyone who has left the Qun.


End file.
